


An Awkward Secret That Someone Denies

by waitingfor_mybiggles (waitingfor_margo)



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, hints at Heroin, like very much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 16:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10166687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingfor_margo/pseuds/waitingfor_mybiggles
Summary: already posted on albion-fic





	

**Author's Note:**

> already posted on albion-fic

Pete walked faster, took bigger steps, his limbs prolonging their journey through the air before hitting ground again. He looked up as he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Apparently the sky tried to mimic his eyes now but much more dramatic. Soon the drizzle turned into heavy rain that soaked his hair and coat. _Not even the best at crying_ , he thought bitterly and put his arms tightly around himself. _But at least I’m able to show emotions_. He remembered Carlos’ blank expression when Peter had been shouting at him. How he’d been so calm when Pete stomped around the room, gesturing wildly. He had probably looked like an idiot whilst Carl was just sitting there, hair falling fucking perfectly like every day, eyes wide and looking up at him as if he was waiting for him to stop throwing a tantrum. And that had hurt most. Carl just wasn’t willing to open his eyes and _see_ – or no – Pete was sure he saw. And he knew. What Carl did was to ignore. And somehow Pete couldn’t handle that.  
This evening when they had wanted to eat dinner, Pete had gone over to the cutlery tray to lay the table and that had been the moment that started Pete’s rage. Pete had looked at the cutlery and hadn’t been able to suppress the embittered laugh that escaped his lips. And Carl had asked “What’s wrong?” - he really had dared to ask _“What’s wrong?”_. “You know, Carlos”, Pete had turned to him. “Both of us have our favourite kind of flatware. I take the spoon and you take the knife.” Carl had frowned at him. “What do you mean?” And then Pete had snapped. He had shouted at Carl, had confronted him, had told him everything they both knew but never talked about.  
The first time he suspected Carl to know something was when he had complained about Pete not returning the spoons to the kitchen when he’d eaten a yoghurt. Pete hated yoghurt. Of course Carl could just have forgotten and Pete was a bit paranoid but from that moment on he paid attention to everything Carl said and did. He recognised every twitch of his eyebrows when Pete went to the loo. And how he eyed him when he returned. And one day he knew for sure. They had sat in the living room, watching TV when Carl had said casually that he had borrowed Pete’s copy of ‘1984’ by Orwell. It was one of his favourites and lay in his drawer. Next to the brown.  
And so now every time Pete went to roll up his sleeve in his room or a cubicle or in an alley or elsewhere he thought of Carl and how mad he was at him until pure bliss pumped through his veins. Because it wasn’t only anyone. It was Carl. And Carl wasn’t supposed to be silent. Carl was supposed to be his friend and his soulmate. _And my saviour_ , Pete thought quietly. Yes, there were quiet thoughts just as quiet words, not sure if they wanted to be heard or not.  
But in this moment Pete realized that Carl hadn’t been silent. The comment about the yoghurt and the book – maybe those were Carl’s way of saying: “I know what you’re doing. Please admit it.” And Pete had, eventually. But in a very stupid way. Pete turned around immediately and began to run. Droplets of water splashed around his feet. And while he sprinted back to the place which he’d fled today, he realized one more thing: he wasn’t better than Carl. And he remembered all those times Carl had winced when Pete had touched his wrists and all those times when he had put a blood stained bandana into the washing machine and when he had felt cold metal against his ear after curling around Carlos at night and when Carl would volunteer to take their waste to the rubbish container and how the bags clanked when he left the house. And he remembered being silent.  
When he arrived at their flat, Pete hammered against the front door and it opened immediately. Carl’s eyes were swollen, his cheeks wet as they smeared against Pete’s own when they fell into each other’s arms. Pete pressed Carl tightly against himself and sighed. He saw a trickle of blood on Carl’s arm when he lifted them to hug Pete back. “I’m so sorry”, whispered in his ear. Pete knew he should say something but he couldn’t. And as they stood there, holding on to each other, Pete wondered where they were headed. Had they enough to keep it together or more to tear it apart? Pete’s needles in his drawer, Carl’s whisky in the cupboard, his knife under his pillow, red, blue and white cloth hiding its work. Would there ever be an end of this secret damage? Would there ever be a good reason to end it?


End file.
